


Ritual: Blood Cleansing

by french_charlotte



Series: Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Dark Magic, Dramione (Mentioned), F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Rituals, Spy Draco Malfoy, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte
Summary: Voldemort is suffering from an unseen foe and a blood ritual has been discovered to ease his ailments and strengthen him again. The main ingredient? Pureblood by someone born under some very strict astrological requirements. And Draco Malfoy meets all of those requirements. Blood is mentioned but no explicit gore/mangling/violence.This is fanfiction of fanfiction. A "missing chapter" from Jewelburns's story, "The Choices We Made". Set in Draco's POV.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Voldemort, Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914247
Kudos: 15





	Ritual: Blood Cleansing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Choices We Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726043) by [JewelBurns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewelBurns/pseuds/JewelBurns). 



> This is a "missing chapter" from my sister's story, "The Choices We Made". It's a wonderfully written story that's worth a binge read with a lovely mix of genres. The original story is set in Snape and Harry's POV but with some solid Dramione and Draco time. I've got a few works for it that are exclusively in Draco's POV. As they're 'piggyback chapters' to complement the main storyline, they'll be published periodically when deemed appropriate timing. 
> 
> Warnings: Dark magic, blood is mentioned (it's a blood ritual, after all), there's a few knives used but no insane knife play or mangling. Just a few cuts. Dramione is mentioned, like, twice but there's no romance in this otherwise. 
> 
> Author Note: This is fanfiction and clearly breaks from canon. It would be super beneficial to read the main story.

When they came for Draco, he was awake and waiting for them. 

When robbed of choices to make in his life, the teen sought every opportunity to carve decisions, even in the most mundane of opportunities. Everything else felt like it was taken from him. It was slow and gradual at first, like the initial trickles of a stream down a mountain at the first glimpse of spring, when snow would thaw and turn to slush. Years ago, his father’s attentions were arrested back to Voldemort’s cause and he immediately assumed his station back among the Death Eaters. Losing his father at first had seemed a small sacrifice for the greatness that it would bring, and Draco was agreeable to it. But it became more and more demanding, and the Malfoys sacrificed more and more. His father was arrested. Their home was commandeered. Their vaults were used to help fund Voldemort’s regime. The steady stream that Draco once felt in control of, that he could hop over with ease and splash and play fun in, quickly became torrential as the snow melted rapidly. And he stood in its path, naive to its power until it was too late to step out of its drowning clutches. He, like everything else in the Malfoy estate, was seized indiscriminately and twisted all for the Dark Lord’s purpose. 

Looking back on it, the blonde would later wonder when he actually realized that he wasn’t in control of his life. He would wonder if he ever was. 

Dolohov and Rookwood strided into the bedroom with wands drawn and confident, heavy steps in preparation for a fight. But Draco wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He also wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being able to forcibly rouse him from bed, pull him unawares into the nightmare that awaited him, and draw an emotional reaction. He might not have been able to change matters, but he could be in control of himself. And that much he wasn’t willing to sacrifice to them when he had a concrete say in it. 

The two Death Eaters looked mildly surprised to find the blonde teen waiting near the large window, his lanky figure and cold expression outlined by the pale moonlight. Dolohov recovered first and roughly grabbed the teen by one arm while Rookwood seized the other, both of them sparing a watchful glance at the one bed still occupied. Harry was awake as well, though his own gaunt features were shadowed in the dying embers and jagged flames from the fireplace. The emerald eyes silently watched them. 

Draco didn’t put up any fight at all as they led him through the dark manor. He didn’t drag his barefeet across the ancient wood floors, or throw his weight stubbornly against the marble staircase. Every so often, his grey eyes would glance up at the family portraits he was passing, remembering each of their names and notable deeds and wondered if he would be afforded one if his time finally came. Or if he would simply become a byline in the Malfoy history, warranting himself a mere mention and nothing more. 

Though he was terrified and scared of what lay ahead, he didn’t dare show it. With a heavily schooled expression and his chin raised to be perfectly parallel with the floor, he maintained flawless poise and unblemished pride. In an hour, though, he wouldn’t even be able to walk down the flight of stairs on his own, nor would he be able to support his body weight without the help of the Death Eaters on either side of him. And somewhere between the stone staircase and his bedroom, he’d piss himself in his weakened state and not even realize it. 

They led him up to the charcoal velvet bedroom, a moniker given to the honored chambers reserved for the most esteemed of visitors. Once upon a time, it was saved for the British monarch, back when the Malfoys exerted influence among the Crown and muggle royals. And though muggle royalty stopped visiting once the Statute was passed, the room was still maintained for the most prestigious visitors. As a child with a small pool of ‘approved’ playmates from other Pureblood families, Draco was typically left to entertain himself in the manor. But in a sprawling estate with three floors, a cellar, and two attics, many would assume he was never left wanting for space to play. 

The entire third floor was deemed off limits to children, even the estate’s young heir. 

It was the proud floor that was reserved for his father’s distinguished guests. The long gallery with its granite busts and time-honored enchanted chandeliers took residence there, the immaculately polished crystals glimmering from the sterling charms. On one side of the floor was the high great chamber, where the traditional lords of the past would receive audience, but now served as a lavish sitting parlour with friezes depicting Diana on her legendary hunts. On the other end of the hall were the bedrooms and chambers, where the charcoal velvet bedroom was located. The entire third floor had once been a gem to the Malfoy family pride, an heirloom in and of itself. 

It was taken from them immediately when Voldemort took up residence in the manor. He didn’t just want the honorable guest bedroom; he demanded the entire floor for his use. Not that he ever used to. It was just a point of flexing his power over the proud family.

And since the previous summer when the manor stopped being theirs, Draco hadn’t gone up to the third floor. Now as he walked silently between the two Death Eaters, looking straight ahead at the gallery and under the sprinkle of chandeliers, he felt like an intruder in his own home. 

The door to the bedroom was open and the dull radiance from a lit fire created mesmerizing shapes in the doorway. At first, Draco assumed the Death Eaters would pause to knock - waltzing right into Voldemort’s _personal_ chambers, not just a shared common area like the drawing rooms, didn’t seem a smart idea - but they didn’t slow their approach.

When Draco first heard through the grapevine that Voldemort took a personal chamber for himself, he’d wondered the purpose. At the time, he didn’t think the Dark Lord required humanly necessities like food and drink and sleep. Those were vulnerabilities; sleep was too human, too relatable for the evil wizard to need. He wasn’t bound by the shackles of living and death, if his resurrection was any indication, so why would he be a thrall to the basic necessities of the living? Did he get sleep deprived like Draco could? Did he have a favorite meal? How did he take his tea? Did he even _like_ tea? 

Did he like anything beyond domination and total control of everything and everyone around him? 

When he thought of the type of room someone as sinister as Voldemort would sleep and live in, his mind conjured ghastly images of bodies rotting from the four-poster bed, of snakes living in the lavatory piping, and bubbling cauldrons taking up space near the window alcove. And that was the image he braced himself for.

As he stepped into the large chamber, his feet stomped into the soft plush carpet as his body froze. The Death Eaters holding his arms were forced to stop too, glancing back at him curiously. 

The bedroom was almost exactly as it had been the last time Draco saw it the previous summer, before Voldemort took it as his own. The four-poster bed was still adorned in thick upholstered velvet, the doe taupe fabric fashioned in damask motifs that matched the gold silk comforter and majestic gild headboard, all ostentatious and jaunty. The fireplace, framed in a mixture of pale alabaster marble and layered wood paneling, was lit with a gentle fire that crackled and popped every so often. 

Curiously, though, there were numerous empty phials on the nightstand beside the bed. Dozens of them. 

If not for the phials and if Draco didn’t see the other side of the bedroom, he wouldn’t have even assumed the darkest wizard in their lifetime was occupying the space. At a glance, it was deceivingly inviting, acting like a calm before the storm. And even when he took in the rest of the room that was prepared for the ritual, he would still feel that the most unnerving of the chamber was the normalcy of the living space. Dark magic and ritualcraft he expected. He could prepare for the horribleness from that. But it was the unexpected ordinary that left him shivering. 

“Ah, here he is. Our most _honored_ guest. Come, young Draco. We’ve prepared a spot specially just for you.” 

The teen’s head snapped immediately to the other side of the room, where the ritual was already prepared for him. Sitting in an armchair, his somber robes flooding around his body like a black sea, was Voldemort with a pleased sneer on his snake-like visage. The couches and chairs in the sitting area were carelessly shoved to the sides to make way for a large circular stone dais that was as wide as Draco was tall and stood at a height up to his chest. The stone sides were dark and unrefined, making it difficult for the Malfoy heir to distinguish what type of stone it was. Not that he wouldn’t be given ample time to figure that out in the many nights he’d spend bleeding out on the altar. 

Because that’s what it was. And he realized it with a sharp intake of breath as he drew closer, seeing the crimson cloth spread across its flat surface and a collection of small carnelian agates, their polished surfaces dazzling from the low lighting, patiently awaiting him. The ritual wasn’t only prepared; it had already begun. Bellatrix flashed him a crooked smile as she cleared away some kind of incense bowl from the altar, the burnt leaves leaving behind an acrid smell of death. 

Unknown to him, they had already burned the toxic henbane and black hellebore. 

Dolohov and Rookwood moved away from him, convinced that they completed their lord’s bidding and delivered the last ingredient needed for the ritual. Frozen in place, Draco idly watched as the Death Eaters joined the last presence in the room he only just noticed: Healer Walker. The witch appeared unnerved with a sickly green hue to her skin, but she studied Draco clinically with assessing eyes that took in his form. 

“He’s thin,” the healer stammered between trembling lips, afraid to voice her conclusion. “Filling five of those chalices will be dangerous for him. Especially if you’re not allowing me to administer the potions during the ritual. ”

Voldemort kept his sanguine stare fixed on the teen as he replied to her. “Is that not why you’re here? To keep him alive? Or are you suggesting your services are no longer…needed?”

The healer blanched and Draco could see her fighting with her fear. True to her Ravenclaw nature, she grasped for the cold bluntness of logic. “He’ll need a potion immediately following. And...and several more in the next few hours if you plan to do this every other night.” Her hands quivered as she reached into her bag, emptying it of supplies and several phials filled to the brim with a rich crimson liquid. Blood replenishing potions. The Slytherin recognized its deep hue immediately and felt his own resolve marginally suffer.

“The hour won’t stay forever,” Bellatrix shrieked over at her nephew with a giddy laugh, the fingertips of one hand balanced on the edge of the altar while the other eagerly beckoned Draco closer. His legs moved numbly forward, his dull grey eyes taking in the altar that he would become so well acquainted with in the next few weeks. 

Woodening his exterior walls and ensuring his emotionless mask was secure, Draco looked questioningly at his deranged aunt flipping an inscribed ritual knife in her hand. She placed a golden goblet filled with an inky liquid void of color on the edge of the altar beside the stones. He pulled his face into a sneer and gestured at the altar. “Should I just get on or do I need an invitation?” 

A clapping and chorus of sinister laughter made a chill chase down Draco’s spine. It shook the foundation of courage he managed to muster up. Glancing uneasily at the armchair, the teen felt the slither of a presence bud against his mental barriers when he met the dark wizard’s amused gaze. “Do you hear that arrogance, Bellatrix?” Voldemort slithered in cruel delight. “Cowering fear has its merits but how I missed that sound of _fake_ bravery. Such an amusing gesture from a traitorous brat.” 

Before he could answer, Bellatrix gave one of her curdling laughs, the kind that drifted between lunacy and derangement. “Take off your shirt and lay in the center.” The sharpened tip of her athame tapped the edge of the altar. “Move quick - time is of the essence, dear nephew.” 

There was no use in delaying what was coming, and really there was no benefit in doing so even if he could. The ritual, namely his unique astrology chart, was Draco’s saving grace. He was a necessary, unique ingredient that couldn’t be easily found; not one with such stringent pureblood while satisfying the astrological requirements. He was essential, and that was why he wasn’t writhing on the ground under the Cruciatus from his sarcastic words. 

After tugging his shirt off and laying flat on his back on the altar, the red felt cloth itchy against his naked back, Draco stared up at the vaulted ceiling. He focused on the intricate plaster and molding creating dainty shapes while Bellatrix hummed to herself as if she were cooking a meal and not overseeing a dark ritual. She dipped the athame in the goblet and, out of the corner of his eye, he was able to confirm that it was filled with a liquid as smooth as silk, but unnaturally black. 

“Sacrificial dragon’s blood. A Bhutan Diamondtail, if I’m not mistaken. Fresh from the Himalayas just for you, poppet,” Bellatrix purred as she suddenly emerged at Draco’s side and quickly yanked his left arm out from his body to dangle his wrist over the sharp edge. Her grip was cold and painful on him. The only gentleness she showed was to the Dark Mark on his forearm, her digits giving it a caressing brush with her fingertips in a sickening display of affection. “Try not to fidget too much, hm?” 

He wanted to ask if it’d hurt but he figured it was a moot question. A dark ritual wasn’t known for being dark simply by the book it was found in. The athame, a ritual knife that he’d occasionally seen in his father’s study during his forbidden snooping in the Malfoy patriarch's haven, was coated in the dragon’s blood, though the runic enchants on the blade shimmered through the ebony liquid with a ghastly radiance.

Taking a deep breath, Draco returned his stare to the ceiling - he tried to ignore the prickle of the knife on his chest, the burning gaze from the dark wizard seated uncomfortably close in his throne of an armchair, Healer Walker eyeing him warily, and his own fear bubbling within. He waited for the inevitable pain of the knife cutting through his skin; it was a dark ritual, after all. But his waiting wouldn’t amount to anything. No pain came. 

Bellatrix didn’t pierce his skin just yet. Instead, she dipped the athame repeatedly in the goblet, using the blade like a brush in a can of paint, and proceeded to carefully draw a myriad of archaic runes on his bare chest. The blood was cold, making the pale hair on his arms stand stiff, but he couldn’t complain. Cold was worlds better than pain. And even more gracious than being permanently branded with another vile mark on his body. 

The Dark Mark was enough. 

Curiosity getting the better of him - or maybe he was just his father’s son and had a peculiar interest in odd and illicit magic - Draco glanced down at his chest to watch his aunt complete the final touches of the runes. The bloodied calligraphy might’ve been elegant if on any canvas other than his own skin; it was cursive but jagged, with the edges tapering off in a fading effect. The witch had to look at a cracked open tome resting on a side table every so often to make sure her handiwork was replicating the one illustrated in the dusty pages. 

When finished, his aunt clapped gleefully, her black lipsticked mouth curling up into a crooked smile. As the blood on his chest dried, the witch rearranged the carnelian agates around his prone body; two above his shoulders, two on either sides of his hips, and one between his ankles. That eager smile of hers not faltering, she swept over to Voldemort’s side and carefully placed five mossgate emeralds around him. 

“Now for the fun part,” she cooed with a small hop, making the wild curls around her head jostle in time with her grotesque ardor. Leaving the first athame in the goblet of dragon blood, she brandished a second knife and shoved the handle into Walker’s reluctant hands. “Make the first incision on our master’s left arm.” Her erratic mood suddenly shifted to anger as she hissed a warning between her clenched teeth: “ _Do. not. do. it_ before I begin speaking the incantation. And then heal it when I’m finished. Got it?”

For Walker’s part, she did an applaudable job at curtailing her fear enough to nod briskly and approach her ‘patient’. But Voldemort wasn’t watching the healer or the blade as she placed it in the crook of his arm; the older wizard was staring at Draco. 

The teen quickly looked away, back up at the ceiling. The exchange wasn’t noticed by Walker or Bellatrix as both witches got to their respected placements to tread into the heart of the ritual. Every other night they’d go through this. Draco wondered if he’d get past the point of accepting it and actually sleep through it.

Bellatrix began to read a liturgy of incantations mixed with Latin and Aramaic words. While he could decipher enough of the Latin, the other archaic language was lost on him. Maybe it was for the best that he remained ignorant to the purpose and will behind the dark ritual. Being the key ingredient tied him intimately close enough with it.

The incision on Voldemort’s arm was cut shallowly; he wasn’t needed to drain any significant amount of blood for the ritual. Quite contrarily, the dark wizard would be taking in an entire chalice full of Draco’s. The fifth chalice; he needed to survive bloodletting to suffice the initial four.

Once Bellatrix finished the incantation, Walker mumbled a healing spell through trembling lips over Voldemort’s arm, mending the skin back together. The young Slytherin could see her fighting with her fear at being so close to the vilest wizard of their era. And he wondered what thoughts she had going through her head to maintain her professionalism and poise. She wasn’t a Slytherin, that was for sure. There was no cunning and deception about her, but there also wasn’t the typical blockheaded bravery - or just ‘stupidity’ as Draco liked to call it - found among the Gryffindor lot. The fact that she even countered the Dark Lord immediately nixed the possibility of her being a Hufflepuff. 

That just left Ravenclaw. 

Guessing the healer’s house distracted the Malfoy heir from what was going on. By the time he returned to the present, he immediately regretted it. Healer Walker was stationed at his left side, one hand gently holding his while clinically probing at the skin on his wrist. Knowing what was coming, he smothered his fear beneath his knowledge that he knew he couldn’t be killed. And yet, was that even a graceful allowance? 

The incision on his wrist made him take in a sharp gulp of air through his nose, loud enough to make Voldemort sneer with vicious delight. The cold rim of the chalice pressed against Draco’s skin while the Healer, after shooting him a sympathetic look, squeezed at his wrist to encourage the blood to begin filling the chalice. It was a sight that should’ve bothered him more, but lying prone on the rock altar, he simply accepted it. It was a sight that’d play out every other night like clockwork, his life essence drained from him all for the glory and perseverance of another. 

“If I wasn’t so inclined to end your life for your treachery, I would applaud you on your ability to maintain your ruse _nearly_ as flawlessly as you did, boy.” 

Draco didn’t react any more to the sound of his blood dripping into the bowl than he did the dark wizard’s words wrapped in a deceptively sweet voice. The Malfoy heir was a master of his own deception, a Slytherin through and through, and continued to mask his emotions and fear as he stared up at the ceiling. 

Voldemort chuckled wryly at his counterpart’s silence. “But you are a mere child attempting to play a game requiring the repertoire of true wizards. You are nothing more than a boy hiding your fear in a prison of arrogance. The same arrogance I saw in your father when he took his mark not much older than you are today. But ah, those days were so different…” 

The teen closed his eyes and tried to focus on anything but the taunting voice and words. He heard the wind occasionally slapping against the tall windows and the faint splashing of his own blood in the chalice. The first bowl was filled and taken away by a pale-faced Walker. The incision on his wrist continued to bleed while she was gone, but without the chalice to catch it, it began to splatter on the three-hundred year old carpet. 

He wasn’t sure what happened to the blood, but he assumed it was discarded. The first four chalices were deemed useless. When Walker returned to his side, she ran her wand down his body and muttered a few diagnostic spells. “Give me your full name, where you are, and what today’s date is.” 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy. Third floor of Malfoy Manor - not sure if you need the bedroom name - and…” He had to pause on the date. Not from any cognitive dissonance but just because he lost touch with the calendar. What day was it? “Erm… 27th of March... I think.” 

Her brow creased slightly. “How do you feel?” 

“Bloody wonderful. Should I be feeling anything else?” 

The healer’s fingers pressed a cloth against his wrist to stem the flow while she went through her medical checklist to ensure his safety and welfare. His sarcasm made her frown deepen but he must’ve said the right string of words to convince her he wasn’t on the brink of death. Because even if he wasn’t necessarily _well_ , he doubted that would be enough to interrupt the ritual. No, his discomfort wasn’t a variable to take into account. It was trial and error, at the end of the day, in figuring out how long they would need to extend the ritual to safely fill up the five needed chalices of blood without killing him. 

A gambling game with very steep, very fatal antes on the table. 

The chalice, now empty, was placed back beneath his dangling wrist and the cloth was removed from the incision. Draco shifted a bit as the healer, with the precision of clinical hands, squeezed around his wrist to re-invigorate the flow of blood, only letting up on the pressure once satisfied with the tepid, steady stream that resumed its dizzle into the chalice. 

Draco wasn’t sure what a slow and steady death caused from blood loss was like, but he could’ve done it without the unnerving commentary by the dark wizard. Physical pain he could take; he could recover from that, albeit with scars that lingered. His pride wasn’t bruised by physical pain. Maybe Voldemort was beginning to pick up on that. Or maybe he was just a dastardly conversationalist. 

“Did you know, boy, that before you were born, your father was one of my most trusted allies,” Voldemort began in what sounded like a casual drawl, but the teen knew better. There was always a barb to it. And he closed his eyes, trying to focus on the strange chill that danced over his skin and a feeling of weightlessness that tickled at his limbs. He knew from his healer training that he was experiencing the early stages of shock. 

The older wizard continued on as the blood began to fill the chalice. “Lucius used to be respected among his colleagues, a mainstay in our organization and scion among the Death Eaters.” Draco heard the snarl in his voice. “And now your father is nothing more than a pathetic pariah not even capable of producing a decent offspring from his loins. I can wax poetic on the amount of failures your family alone have succeeded, but why spoil all of our conversational pieces on the first night?” 

He wanted a rise. Draco knew it -- everyone knew it. But he wouldn’t give it to him. The teen might only have been a pawn in the grand scheme of the game, but even pawns had destinies. And he was determined to try to maintain as much control over his as he could manage, even in the smallest of measures. 

Lolling his head towards the Healer holding the chalice gingerly collecting his blood, Draco sighed at her. “How much more blood do I have to lose before I pass out?” 

Walker’s lips thinned to an anemic line and she gave him a chagrined look. It was the same look his mother would give him during the annual summer ‘picnic’ their family was always invited too, when Draco enjoyed the freedom of no classes and got a little too rambunctious with friends. Because while the Slytherin couldn’t necessarily be killed, he wasn’t untouchable to torture sessions. And neither was she. Replacing her was leagues easier than him. 

“Just take a few deep breaths for me and try to focus on your breathing,” she mumbled, continuing to massage his forearm with fingers that brushed against his Dark Mark but never truly touched it. She was avoiding it, that much he could discern. 

Time seemed to detached itself from its normal linear flow as the night and ritual progressed. Draco tried to think about better times - happier times - even if they would never come to pass. He thought of this strange Disneyland Hermione mentioned and how he’d like to see her face light up with excitement when visiting it. The image brought a warmth to the pit of his stomach, nearly enough to invigorate and heat up the strange chill that descended on his body. He truly had no desire to experience that level of muggle technology but he’d compromise with her; she’d spend a few weeks at his chateau in Reims, lavishing among the rows of grapes and dining on the finest haute cuisine France had to offer, and in return he’d suffer the muggle theme park. 

“State your full name, where you are, and what today’s date is.” Walker demanded as she emptied out the second chalice and prepared the third. 

He hesitated and only then realized his eyes were closed. “Draco Malfoy. Malfoy Manor.” He paused on the date again and had to put effort into recalling the answer. “27th of March.” 

By the end of the third chalice and the start of the fourth, Draco successfully drowned out Voldemort’s occasional taunting words, though whether that was from pure willpower or his now feeble body fighting shock, he couldn’t tell. Nor did he really mind. It was morbidly amusing experiencing the stages of shock after having studied them in his healer training. First came a prickle of unease and anxiety that eventually numbed itself to an overall sensation of weakness. 

By the middle of the fourth chalice, Draco struggled with stringing together coherent, logical thoughts from one to the other. His blonde hair was matted against his dampened, sweaty brow, despite the coldness that eclipsed his body. Everything felt so cold and clammy, and he began to fight the wave of unconsciousness that lingered on his periphery. He felt tired, so very tired, and his sluggishness transcended from his shaky limbs to his confused thoughts. 

A distant, familiar voice broke through his haze. It was spoken in urgency and alarm, and enough to make him crack his eyes open to glance confusedly up at Walker hovering over him. “Give me your full name, where you are, and what today’s date is.”

That bloody question again. 

The Slytherin teen closed his eyes and turned his head in the opposite direction without intending on it. Where was he again? He wanted to say the ritual, that he was in the midst of experiencing that nightmare, but conjuring a response to her - let alone _three_ \- felt like she was asking him to recite the entire Elder Futhark alphabet backwards. It took too much brainpower that he wasn’t able to expend. 

Alarmed at his silence, the healer shook his shoulder. “Draco. Your name.” 

“You just said it,” he mumbled. Even amidst his weakened state, he still managed sarcasm. But that wasn’t enough to make her go away -- answering those three questions would be the only thing that would. “Draco Malfoy. Manor.” The date? What day was it? What _month_ was it? Did January already pass and if so, when was it in relation to the rest of the year? He knew it was around the Easter break and that was in Spring term, but what months were during that time? 

“Draco…” The healer pressed. 

But before he could say anything further, Bellatrix impatiently slapped her hands on the altar. “He got two out of three of your questions right, you daft bint. Either fill the last chalice or I’ll make this a family affair and do it myself. We are far too close to abandon this now.” 

The voice on his left - the owner of the body holding onto his left wrist - argued back. “My duty is to make sure he survives this. How can you possibly expect me to do my job when you’re attempting to do it for me? Rather wretchedly at that.” 

The deranged witch’s demanding tone turned to a purr. “Our master needs this. Draco will understand the sacrifice.” 

Voldemort’s far too amused voice joined in with the witches quarrel. “The boy is fine. Fill the final chalice.” 

Draco snorted at that. How did _he_ know? The man was arguably one of the vilest incapable of showing a morsel of benevolence or empathy. Voldemort needed that final chalice - the fifth one - to best combat his muggle disease and continue his reign of terror.

Muggle disease. The darkest, most dangerous wizard terrorizing their world was dying to a muggle disease. 

The thought struck Draco as hilarious. He hardly noticed his wrist bleeding profusely into the final chalice as he let out a chorus of full-bellied laughs. And so weak and disoriented, he’d forgotten that he was in a room surrounded by three high ranking Death Eaters and Voldemort, all of whom were staring at him. 

“Dare I ask what is so humorous, boy?” Voldemort asked. 

“Muggles,” the teen blundered out inelegantly, the words feeling too large and clumsy for his tongue. Everything felt so distant and cold, thoughts and sensations. He should’ve stopped there. He should’ve stayed silent. “This whole bloody war is on muggles and muggle-borns. And… and how perfect is it that it’s a _muggle_ disease. Brilliant irony, that’s what it is.” 

Whatever their reactions were to his words, Draco wasn’t privy to. His ears suddenly filled with the thunderous applause of his own thumping, erratic heartbeat. It was the final stage of shock; he’d marvel at it much later when he wasn’t fighting to remain conscious, as his body succumbed to a panicked thrive to survive. 

Suddenly, hands were grabbing Draco by his shoulders and hauling him to sit up. He managed to partially open his eyes, but the world spun and tilted listlessly, and an army of shadows coalesced in his vision. He briefly saw the healer before he slammed his eyes shut again and willed the world to either dissolve to blackness or to right itself. Either ending would’ve been preferred to remaining in the torturous limbo he currently existed in, but the world wasn’t so kind to him. 

His left arm now free, the Slytherin timidly rubbed his thumb over his wrist. The skin was freshly healed and he could feel no evidence of the incision. In a way, he would’ve preferred to have something left to signify the ritual actually happened.

Was the ritual over? 

The narrow rim of a phial was hurriedly pressed to the blonde’s lips, surprising him and making him shake his head away on instinct. 

“You need to drink this, Draco,” the healer’s voice gently urged.

But the young wizard fought it. Why? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was his last ditch effort to maintain control of an impossible situation he truly had no control over. He was forced to be the key ingredient to keep the madman alive. Never asked. And even if he was, he doubted his answer would have yielded any kind of results. 

Healer Walker’s voice became firmed. More desperate. “Draco… stop. You _must_ drink this.” 

He continued to turn his head this way and that, refusing what he now recognized as a potion. The heavily spiced aroma of nettle leaves and valerian roots could be detected, and he knew it would be the first of many in the string of potions forced on him in the next few hours. The ritual was complete, apparently, and he was on the mend. His halfhearted struggle was easily overpowered, in the end, when the healer managed to tip the phial back and dump the bitter potion in, his throat doing the rest of the job as if on autopilot. 

He didn’t see the other component of the ritual, the megalomaniac slowly rising from his armchair with a satisfied look on his unnatural features. The entire fifth chalice of blood had been slowly dripped into Voldemort’s arm, and Draco would later feel disgusted to know his own life force was funneled to keep the other alive. 

But in the moment, Draco wasn’t sure what was happening. The world meshed into utter chaos of colors that moved too quick for him to make sense of. His arms were seized once again and he was tugged off the altar. While he initially didn’t rely on his Death Eater escorts to bring him to Voldemort’s chambers, he now found himself unable to fully support his own weight once he was standing. All he wanted to do was crawl into a ball and sleep for the next century. Maybe by the time he woke up, the world would have figured itself out and he could finally be given rest. 

Or he’d succumb to the weakness and strain it placed on his body. Really, he was accepting of either. 

He tried to keep up pace with Dolohov and Rookwood as they half guided, half dragged him out of the room, down the elegant gallery past a parade of portraits slumbering peacefully, and barely gave him the decency to help him down the flight of marble-cut stairs. Out of the two, Dolohov seemed the most patient with his feebleness, his grip shifting to the teen’s upper arm to suspend his weight more securely and make sure the boy didn’t collapse entirely. It wasn’t out of any morsel of decency or compassion; it’d make both of the Death Eaters’ jobs harder if he took a tumble down the stairs and hurt himself worse than what the ritual did. They couldn’t bear to lose their master’s key ingredient to revitalizing himself. 

Feeling the world teeter in and out of focus, Draco barely noticed his body go lax in some places it probably shouldn’t have. A wet warmth began to grow in his pyjama pants, soiling the exquisite silks and making him smell of his own pungent fluids. As humiliating as wetting himself might’ve seemed, he oddly didn’t feel so embarrassed. And even in the hours to come, when his body would regain strength and logic would return to him, he’d take pride in his bladder’s failure to hold its contents in. Even in his frail state, he still managed to be an utter wanker to his Death Eater guards.

The rest of the trip back to his shared quarters felt as flimsy and dizzying as a dream. Draco mutedly heard Dolohov curse at the smell, and the renewed hurriedness from Rookwood suggested that he, too, was not stomaching the accident very well. 

When they made it back to his room, he somewhat registered being yanked across the threshold, his feet struggling to match their impatient cadence and fighting with the rug, and familiar arms cradling him gently. Sounds and voices felt like they were coming from a tunnel; oddly distorted and sourced faraway. He could hear voices, but couldn’t make sense of their words. But the arms and the smell of his mother’s perfume - a floral fragrance with notes of ylang ylang, Damascus rose, and jasmine - filled his senses and gave him better clarity. 

The blonde didn’t really come to until he was leaned against the bathroom vanity. And for that, he was thankful. While he might not have cared in the moment about his humiliating state, he didn’t want to stomach the shame in front of Harry by acknowledging his appearance. Not that he ever expected the overly benevolent Gryffindor to use his state as source material for an insult; not only was it not in his nature, but after sharing quarters with him for so long, he knew for certain the other teen had his own dismal experiences. Draco never once used it against the Gryffindor - though had it been years ago, he certainly would’ve, especially when the two were at the height of their rivalry.

Oh, how far they had come. 

Draco almost snickered at the irony as he felt his mother assisting in changing out his soiled pyjamas and boxers. The bathroom was silent while he helped her as much as he could by leaning his weight on the vanity to step out of the dirtied garments, but it was his mother who maneuvered the new clothes in place. At the ripe age of sixteen, it was the last thing any boy would want to go through, but his life was far from conventional. 

He didn’t live an unconventional life inherently. No, actually, his life prior to starting at Hogwarts was painfully predictable and manicured. It became unconventional when he began Hogwarts. When he inched into adolescence. When Harry Potter started to take a more present role in his life. 

His mother navigated his uncoordinated arms into his nightshirt once he was in fresh garments on his lower half. Life prior to Harry Potter was, indeed, very stale and certain. Some might say mundane. But as he aged, so too did the complexity of his days. And once his life became completely enmeshed with the Gryffindor come Sixth Year, he was captured in the other teen’s orbit of chaos. Even before Sixth Year, he’d experienced some of his most uncanny experiences thanks to Harry. 

Like being a ferret. 

“There we are. As good as new,” his mother said with a soft smile as her hands cradled the sides of his face. Though it was slow at first, his eyes gradually focused her into view. 

His mother had changed much as well. Had it been four years ago, she wouldn’t have touched soiled pyjamas and would have delegated the work to a house elf. Before Harry Potter’s existence created a whirlwind in their lives, she was the stalwart, perfect pedigree wife. 

If given the choice, Draco much preferred this version of her.

And to fully embrace their newly defined roles, he did the unthinkable by returning her gentle smile with a tired one of his own and quietly uttered, “Thank you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I survive on kudos, comments, and coffee.


End file.
